


Passionfruit

by Singe_Addams



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, Cliche, Doomed Relationship, Het and Slash, Humor, Multi, Non-Graphic Violence, Parody
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-17
Updated: 2011-05-17
Packaged: 2017-10-19 12:34:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/200892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Singe_Addams/pseuds/Singe_Addams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Sam/Frodo pairing in LOTR fandom is rife with cliches and one day I just snapped and wrote them all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Passionfruit

Sam entered the dark, cork-walled room and approached Frodo on his knees, as was right and proper for a lowly worm like him. He pulled his forelock with cringing servility. He hoped the gesture didn't emphasize, too much, the rough skin and the faint traces of dirt apparent on his disgusting, filthy, wretched, base, worker-type hands. "G'morning, Mr. Frodo, sir, me dear, sir, beggin' your pardon!"

"Sam, you're talking to the coat rack," said a languid voice to Sam's left.

"I am?" He was. Sam threw himself on the floor and great tears welled up in his eyes. "I'm so sorry, Sir! It's just...I can hardly see, it's so dark in here!"

Sam heard a low gasp and Frodo stepped forward. Sam's eyes had adjusted and he could see his beloved Master clearly. Frodo's pale skin gleamed while his pouty mouth trembled and hurt welled up in his cerulean, dove-egg, sky-colored, cave-dwelling, limpid pool-like eyes. "You don't like...something that I like, Sam?"

"NO, BYRON! I MEAN, FRODO! I TAKE IT BACK! I LOVE THE DARK! ESPECIALLY YOUR DARK! OH, PLEASE DON'T SEND MEEE AWAYYYY!!!"

Frodo pulled a large lace handkerchief out of his sleeve and wiped his sexily consumptive brow. His delicate legs trembled with the effort of supporting his spare frame and he pulled on his cravat as if it were choking him. "I...I will write a letter of recommendation for you," he sobbed. "You will be able to find a position anywhere. You'll find a new Master...someone you might feel safer with...someone who can't poison you with any wretched, unnatural, accursed DARKNESS!" He put a hand in his pants pocket and began to fumble around. Sam was turned on by this blatant game of pocket-pull but then Frodo's words sunk into his slow brain.

"NOOOOOO!!" Sam's tears were suddenly soaking the rug.

"Begone, Sam! It's for your own good...and the carpet's."

"Oh, me common-folk saltiness on yer noble floor!"

"BEGONE, damn you, damn you!" His thin legs finally gave out and Frodo crumpled into a heap on the floor. Sam went to help him but Frodo pulled an extra large volume of Elvish porn over his head and refused to look at his betrayer. His hand still fiddled with something portentous in his pocket. There was nothing for it, Sam had to go.

With a final sob he ran out of the room, down the hall of Bag End and out into the intolerable sunshine and fresh air. He ran and he ran...until he was brought up short by his father clothes-lining him in the throat. "GACK!" He went down.

While he was down the Gaffer kicked him. "Ee, Uriah! I mean, Sammie! How dare you go runnin' about all free-like?! Yew gotta be 'UMBLE, ye worthless bastard, and you gotta know yer place! You gotta crawl on yer belly in the dust! Yew gotta be a WORM, lad!" Kick, kick, punch, gouge.

"Yessir! I reckon I will, Dad!" His kidneys were starting to hurt but this was his father. He was honor bound to let himself be beat to death as his sister, Daisy, had been beaten to death that morning for smiling at a butcher. (Butchers being two shades higher than a gardener in the Shire's rigid caste system. The Gaffer didn't want his family to be seen as 'uppity' so Daisy had to go.)

Luckily, the Gaffer left off beating Sam before he expired. "Gotta job for yew. Ya gotta bury yer sister."

"I buried her this morning."

"Naw, t'other sister!"

"Marigold?"

"Nay, y'THIRD sister! What's 'er name again?"

"Er, I don't remember."

"Yur nowt but a ninnyhammerflimflamdigdgeridoostupidshit, Sam!"

"I know, Sir." Sam hung his head and fought back more tears. That was obviously why Frodo had sent him away. That and the horrible, horrible toil evident on his hands.

"Anyroad, 'caught her pettin' a gentlehobbit's dawg! Can't have that! Can't go takin' on airs and gettin' above our station! Which is where, Sam?"

"In the dirt."

"Roight! Now, I broke the shovel-handle on her back so while I'm fixin' that, the shovel not her back, you go on down and borrow the Cotton's shovel to do t'job with." The Gaffer grinned. "There's someone there that might be glad to see ye!"

Sam gulped in horror and hurried away at once lest his father start in with those big feet again. But, oh, no, not the COTTONS! Not...not...PLEASE!

Not HER!

Darting from bush to bush Sam crept up on the Cotton farm. (Farmers being in the same sort of dirt-grubbing business as gardeners, social intermingling was allowed.) Sam stood at the back door and listened carefully. He could not hear HER so he got up the courage to knock. Mr. Tom Cotton, broken and old before his time, slowly opened the door. Seeing Sam there seemed to chill his heart that much more. "I've come to borrow a shovel, sir," Sam whispered.

Mr. Cotton nodded and beckoned Sam in. He cast a longing look out at the free, green fields, the paradise, that waited beyond the back door, before slowly closing it again. He turned from it with a sigh. "I had dreams once, Sam."

"Sir?"

"Aye, dreams, and love, too. The finest love that neither gold nor jewels could buy. We danced and we laughed and we twined our naked bodies in the moonlight."

"EWWW, sir, I really don't..."

"Then I made a mistake," the farmer went on. "People thought our love was wrong, unnatural...DARK!" Sam gulped. "And I allowed them to part us. We had to cleave unto Them and spew forth progeny to be seen as right again."

"Them?" Sam squeaked. The kitchen door banged open and Farmer Cotton's wife stood silhouetted in the doorway. She held a butcher knife in one hand and a pair of sharpened shears in the other.

"Them!" the farmer winced.

"Tom! What's wrong with you, keeping our guest waiting in the hall!" Mrs. Cotton cried, eyes gleaming. "Bring him into..." she licked her red lips, "The kitchen!" Mr. Cotton shuddered and held still. Mrs. Cotton opened her shears and then closed them with a snap. "Now," she commanded. Mr. Cotton reluctantly put a hand on Sam's shoulder and guided him down the long, moist corridor. Mrs. Cotton grinned and held the entrance wide for them.

Sam stepped in. The kitchen was warm, red and seemed to pulse. He stared about in horror. "Hello, Ssssam!" hissed a voice and he spun around. It was HER!

"He...hell...hell...hello, Rosie! I'm here to borrow the shovel." He trembled where he stood.

"Fetch it!" Rosie's mother snapped and the farmer flinched and scurried away. "He'll be back soon. Here, have something to eat while you're waiting!" She laid a long, thick sausage out on the sideboard and raised her butcher knife. CHOP! CHOP! CHOP! She savaged it, laid the neat pieces on a plate and offered it to Sam.

"Th...thank you," he stammered, allowing himself to be seated. Mrs. Cotton poured him a glass of milk and it glowed a poisonous white in the dimness. He began to eat and drink.

"Here Ssssssam, I made ssssome cake. Ssssome ssspecial cake just for you!" Rosie hissed, and put a small pastry next to his plate. It looked like a great, red mouth with teeth in it. Very strange but Sam thanked her and ate it, too. Finally, finally, finally Mr. Cotton came back and held out the spade.

Sam leapt up and grabbed it. "ThankyousomuchImustbegoing! Goodbye!"

"Goodbye, Sssam," Rosie ssssibilated, her pupils contracting into slits. "Goodbye...for now."

Sam fled. He didn't care to think what his old dad would do if he was caught running again so he kept off the main road and darted from tree to tree through the forest.

"Pippin, what have you done?!" cried an exasperated voice. Sam recognized it. It was Master Merry, a foul tempered Brandybuck. "Put that head DOWN!"

"Aw, Merry, I'm just havin' a bit of a kick-about!" whined a voice with a Tookish accent. "First you wouldn't let me pet the pretty snake with a rattle on its tail, then you wouldn't let me eat the yellow snow and now THIS! Can't we have ANY fun?!" There was a thump and the Gaffer's disembodied head, still with an annoyed scowl on its face, went rolling past Sam.

"AIIGH! Me DAD!" Sam exclaimed. Pippin and Merry came running up. Sam quickly did the Four Points of greeting that was expected when a creature of lesser status met those of greater status (tug forelock, bow, kneel and kiss feet) before getting back to business. "Beggin' your pardon, sirs, but what happened to me Dad?"

"Oh, it was lovely!" Master Pippin enthused, beaming, while Merry tore his own hair out in great clumps. "I didn't have a ball of my own to play with, and I was tired of playing with Merry's balls, so I snicked off this old fart's head with his own scythe and used that." Sam leaned on his spade and sighed. Pippin's eyes went round. "You're not upset are you, Sam?" The gardener sighed again. Pippin dimpled up at him. He batted his lashes. He butted his head against Sam's chest until Sam couldn't stand it anymore and grinned.

"Aw, Master Pip. No one can stay upset with you for any amount o' time. Take it and enjoy yer game, you little cutie, you." Pippin whooped with joy, picked up the Gaffer's head by its ear and trotted away. Sam and Merry smiled fondly after him.

Then Merry swung a beautiful round-house punch and knocked three of Sam's teeth loose. "You made Frodo cry, you bastard! What's wrong with Frodo's darkness? I LIKE having him in the dark, and so did all of the Buckland and half of Hobbiton! Why do YOU have to be so particular?!"

"Mr. Merry, I love him!" Sam gasped and clapped a hand over his mouth. Then he started to cry. Again.

"You what?" Merry stood out of the way of Sam's salty fountain of tears.

"It were all a mistake!" Sam sobbed, "I love Mr. Frodo, I do, I just got tired of tripping over the footstool every time I went into his room and my legs got all bruised and now I've been sacked and I'll never barely not hardly be able to see him anymore and...and...and...do you smell something burning?"

Merry and Sam turned around, sniffing, and beheld a strange cloaked figure peeking around a tree. It stepped forward and a thin, trembling hand pulled back the hood. It was Frodo! Sam's dear Frodo and he was smiling with hope and joy and his skin was smoking in the sunlight. "Do you mean it, Sam?" he asked over the sizzle of his delicate flesh. "Do you love me?"

"Mr. Frodo! What are you doing out here?!" Sam gasped, quite forgetting to kneel, kiss ass or anything of the sort. He could hear Merry sputtering in genteel rage at the insult but all his focus was on Frodo.

"I have to be where you are, Sam." Frodo pulled his hand out of his dreaded pocket and touched Sam's face with a blistered finger. "I love you, too!" Merry fainted. A bolt of lightning shot across the sky. Pippin punted the Gaffer's head into a crow's nest and lifted his arms in triumph. Goal! Goal! GOOOOOAAAAAALLLLLLLL!!!

Sam cried. Again. "Let's get you home, Sir!" He dropped the shovel. Flinging Frodo over his shoulder like a limp noodle, Sam ran, ran, ran back to Bag End as fast as he could go. No one could stop him now!

Back in the smial, Sam was ready to embrace the total darkness of Frodo's life but Frodo wouldn't hear of it. He lit a candle. A single candle as proof of his love for Sam and they made sweet hobbit lurve in its light of promise. Needless to say, the sex was a spectacular success, even though both were middle-aged virgins. Go figure.

But neither of them heard the faint sound of mocking laughter, like waves _hissing_ upon the sand of a distant shore.

 

The End


End file.
